Couldn't handle it
by theincomparableswan
Summary: My tumblr Lieutenant Duckling AU - their relationship is an endless string of apologies, but they can't help but be drawn to one another, and what should've been a one-time thing turns out to be (surprise, surprise) so much more. Rated M for later.
1. Part 1

She has no idea how she ended up here.

One minute she was with Graham, escaping one of those god-awful parties her mother had arranged in the hopes that her wayward daughter might find a suitor; the next, she was walking into this joint ('The Rabbit Hole' she thought she'd read on the sign out front) decidedly Graham-less, and without any desire to return to the castle even though she was – _is –_ regrettably, undeniably, lost, and in an area that can only be described as, well, the opposite of respectable.

Or perhaps not regrettably so much as gloriously, because this is the most fun she's had in a long time, regardless of the location and the 'how' to her arrival.

Two drinks down, another three lined up, and sharing a table with a bunch of naval officers that have returned for the weekend, Emma is quite glad she had the sense to change into her riding gear before escaping the castle (there's no way she was going to be the princess tonight), and quite glad she's just buzzed enough not to ruin this by worrying about what her parents would say if they could see her right now.

Raucous laughter pulls her from her thoughts and she looks up at the man sitting in front of her, a grin plastered on her own face as she reaches for the next glass.

He's cute looking, if a little too old for her seventeen year old self, with curly hair, a broad, sturdy chest, and an easy smile. Liam or something, she thinks he said his name was.

His brother, on the other hand, is not too old for her. But where he may be better looking (okay, that's an understatement – he's easily the most attractive man she's ever seen), he lacks the same easy-going demeanor as Liam, and is proving to be quite the downer on an otherwise enjoyable atmosphere.

He's sat there quietly all night, stiff next to the relaxed posture of everyone else, uncomfortable and politely refusing every drink that comes his way. He's bashful and awkward when someone tries to bring him into the conversation, and Emma has the sneaky suspicion that those looks he keeps throwing at his brother are a silent plea for permission to leave.

She has no personal reason to feel this way (after all, it isn't like he's doing anything to _deliberately_ annoy her), but Emma finds him and his attitude infuriating, and after a few steady drinks, loosening that top button of his – both figuratively _and_ literally – seems like the best decision she's ever had.

So when the next round of drinks comes along and he, as she expected, declines the glass offered to him, she silently surrenders her own drink for the sake of the mission, and pushes it over to where he sits across the table.

He looks up at her, raising his eyebrows as if to say 'what's this?', and she rolls her eyes in reply, thinking this guy wouldn't know a good time if it hit him over the head.

"It's a drink" she says in a bored tone, "you should try one. You might actually find that you like it."

He's surprised for a second, but recovers quickly enough.

"Yes, thankyou, I'm well aware of what a drink is" he says, pushing the glass back.

"Really?" she says in mock surprise, the glass sliding towards him again by her hand, "then what's your aversion to it?"

This time she sees something change in his eyes; there's the hint of a smile, but before he can reply, he's interrupted by his brother who's just become aware of their conversation.

"The girl is right, brother" Liam says, tilting his head towards her, "you need to loosen up!"

She nods along with the suggestion and then adds to his brother's encouragement, smirking, "Unless you think you couldn't handle a bit of fun, of course."

He holds her gaze for a moment, like he's searching for something there. Apparently giving up, he looks down and considers the glass in front of him, debating whether or not rising to her barely concealed challenge is worth whatever risk he sees in drinking the warm, amber liquid.

And as she watches, one of his eyebrows lifts, the beginnings of a smile that is none too boyish works its way onto his face, and for the first time that night, she sees a different side of him; a more roguish, more sexual, more pirate than law-abiding naval officer kind of side.

She feels a hot flush that has nothing to do with the alcohol creep up her neck, heating her cheeks, and it only worsens when he leans forward, matching her gaze, and says, "All due respect, milady, but perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."

His blue eyes are serious, yet somehow playful, and they latch onto her green ones from beneath heavy lids.

_Damn, _she thinks, her heart tripping over itself and her lips parting in surprise. She doesn't look away – _can't _look away – and neither does he until Liam's hearty laugh breaks the tension, and he gives a firm clap on his brother's back, evidently pleased by his decision, and muttering something about 'good form.'

Eventually, she manages to say, "Care to test that theory?"

He shrugs, leaning back again. "What did you have in mind?"

-/-/-/-

She has no idea how it got this out of hand.

Actually, she knows _exactly _how it got this out of hand, she's just still surprised that she let it – and not just for her sake, but for his, too.

She's stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid, _but she can't quite bring herself to regret it, even though she's had plenty of chances to put a stop to it, even now as she stands up, leaning over the table towards him, just as he leans over the table towards her, both giddy with alcohol and laughter and downing yet _another _shot of alcohol to the encouraging shouts of pretty much the entire tavern.

They're neck and neck, one or two glasses away from raising the white flag and calling it quits. She's pretty sure it's already a miracle that they're both not passed out under the table by now, and even in her alcohol-addled brain she knows she's never quite been _this _drunk.

Still, another shot arrives and they both glance from the tray to each other. Perhaps if she'd been sober enough to fully understand what he was trying to wordlessly communicate the second before they both reached for a glass, the uproar beginning again in wild anticipation, she would've understood what was about to happen.

Nevertheless, her hand, gripping tight around the encased liquid, closes in on her mouth and she has to consciously swallow down bile. And at that point, she realises, without a doubt in hell, that she is going to _lose, _that she couldn't handle it, can't handle it, probably never will be able to handle the sight of alcohol ever. again.

"I – "

"_OH, YOU WIN" _a voice – a defeated voice from across the table – cuts her own declaration off, and with a loud cry, he throws the glass he's holding down and it smashes all over the floor, signalling his loss.

The noise that follows is deafening_: _his fellow crew members jump up, shouting an all manner of jovial, teasing, comments at him, the entire tavern is alive with laughter and yelling, and she, herself, somehow finds the energy to cry _"Victory!" _(never mind that if she'd spoken a second earlier, she would be the one is his current position) whilst receiving claps on the back and her name chanted over and over again as her arm is raised up in triumph, prompting her to take an exaggerated bow.

After a couple of moments, he gets up as well and joins in with the festivities, unable to help himself, the mood infectious and his top button well and truly undone now.

And, yeah, she's drunk beyond belief, but when she throws herself into his arms without thought and he reciprocates immediately, she knows, _knows _with a complete surety the likes of which she hasn't felt in a long time, there's no place she'd rather be in that moment than right there with him, with this complete stranger that she met not four hours ago.

There's a loud thumping sound in the direction of the door, and she draws back from their embrace, only two hear six words she'd been trying to avoid all night –

"Open up for the Royal Guard!" a man (or perhaps a dwarf – is that Leroy?) shouts, his voice muffled by the wood.

The tavern goes silent, but when the thumping resumes and the unmistakeable sound of an axe working against the metal of door hinges is heard, everyone bursts to life again, scrambling, and shouting and tripping over each other in their haste to get out of there, flocking to the back door.

Sparing a moment to acknowledge that the tavern must be shadier than she initially thought, she grabs onto his arm and pulls him towards the back exit, shoving past people in a mad rush to be free of the place. A hysterical laugh breaks free of her lips and she looks back at him instinctively; there's a Cheshire grin on his own face, his cheeks are just as flushed as hers, and they're both still somehow managing to find amusement in the situation.

They disappear through the exit just as the front entrance breaks down and someone – yes, it is Leroy – says "we're looking for the princess."

_Close shave, _she thinks, pulling him along as they dodge through crowds of people, working their way through the streets and trying to put as much ground between themselves and the guards as possible (not that he has any idea why they are, nor any reason to believe that he's done something wrong.)

At last, when she thinks they're far enough away that there's no chance of them being caught, they stop in an alleyway just outside the heart of the town.

Panting and utterly exhausted from this whirlwind of a night, she rests her hands on her knees and bends forward slightly, catching her breath. Her pants are torn, her hair is falling out from the braid it was in, and there are scratch marks on her arms from when she fell over people and her own feet. The crisp night air has had a sobering effect on her, though, and when she looks up at him, she can't help but laugh for the millionth time that night.

And he does too – a rich, warm laugh that makes her want to do it all over again.

"Well, milady," he begins between breaths, "I can't say this night hasn't been interesting."

She grins, nodding her head by way of agreement. "Call me Emma" she manages eventually.

"Emma" he repeats with a smile, his expression softening. "Leftenant Jones," he introduces himself after a moment, giving a curt bow.

"Just Jones?" she questions, unconsciously moving closer, "Do you have a first name, or am I to refer to you as Leftenant from now on?" she continues teasingly.

There's a smirk on his face when he leans forward, and that pirate-like quality to his demeanor which she saw earlier is there once again.

She'd like to say she isn't affected by his sudden proximity, but the truth of the matter is, there's a heat between them that can't be attributed to the residual effects of the alcohol, and it's making it increasingly difficult for her to form coherent thought.

His voice is low and seductive his voice when he finally says "Wouldn't you like to know."

It takes her a moment, but when his words register, she shoves him playfully, muttering the word 'bastard' under her breath, eliciting a laugh from him as he stumbles back against the wall.

She goes with him, her body moving of its own accord, and dimly she notices just how close she is to him, just how much she wants to grab him by the scruff of his hair and pull him towards her – which is exactly what she then does, in a manner of speaking.

Her hands come to rest against his chest and she leans up on her tippy toes, relishing in the way his expression changes as she does so.

His eyes become serious, but there's a burning there now as well, an undisguised desire for her, for this, and a single shiver skitters down her spine with the knowledge that _she's _responsible for it.

Emboldened, she grips on to the lapels of his jacket, pulls him down to her, and is about to bring them both into relief when he says something, so quietly she almost thinks she imagined it.

"_Killian_" he murmurs against her lips. His breathing is heavy, and his voice sounds almost strangled with need.

"What?" she says, tearing her gaze away from his lips to look at him at the same time he looks up at her.

"My first name," he begins again, and this time, there's an urgency, an insistence in his tone replacing the loftiness that was present when he first said it_, _before continuing, "is Killian."

He glances down at her lips and leans forward as if to capture them, but she pulls back, drawing it out, her eyelids closing involuntarily, savouring the moment.

"Well, Killian Jones," she says finally, blue eyes meeting green, something exciting, something overwhelming, something like bottled energy building up between them, and she can practically feel his bated breath when she adds, in barely a whisper, "why don't you kiss – "

He doesn't allow her to finish, his mouth crashing against hers in full force, chasing away whatever thoughts she has and has ever had, stumbling into her as she simultaneously falls back, bringing him with her, his arms immediately coming to circle around her waist to catch her.

It feels as though they've sucked all the air out from the alley – hell, from the whole town – because, suddenly, she can barely breathe, and she's pretty sure neither can he if the muffled grunt he made before is any indication.

Nevertheless, back they go, hitting the wall harder this time as she kisses him back with equal fervour, finally, _finally, _bringing her hands up to tangle in his hair and grip the back of his head as she opens her mouth for him and his tongue slips in.

She moans into the kiss, and all of a sudden, he's whipping them around so that she's the one trapped between the wall and him now. At the same time, his hands leave their place around her waist and begin seeking out new territory, roaming everywhere all at once, along her stomach, over her chest where he presses hot kisses on the exposed skin above her breasts, and then up her thighs (she silently curses her riding gear at that point) where he hitches one leg up around his hips, eliciting sighs and shivers from her the whole time, and setting every muscle, every cell and nerve-ending on fire.

She can feel him hard in his pants as he grinds up against her, and can feel her own arousal growing wetter by the second, putting all kinds of scenarios in her head; rough, dirty, alley sex being number one, and she knows if she doesn't put a stop to this sometime soon, they'll very likely end up there.

As if she'd thought out loud, it begins to get needier, sloppier, more desperate and open-mouthed as they tug on each others bottom lips, as they give and take in equal measure; the battle for dominance growing more intense.

His hand hitches higher on her leg, and he's close now, _so _close to where she aches to be touched, all she'd have to do is adjust herself slightly and he'd be there. She knows he wants to, so she bucks her hips forward, prompting him.

He pulls back and groans, like it physically pains him to do so, and rests his forehead against hers as he breathes out her name – low and passionate and wistful, leaving her craving and grasping at him for more.

Both of them still breathing heavily and struggling for air, his hand comes up to rest against the wall behind her after a moment, and the other drops from away from her thigh.

She instantly regrets the loss and releases a shaky breath, glancing up at him.

He looks wrecked: his hair is mussed up and sticking out all over the place from when she'd run her hands through them, and there's a longing, hungry, almost feral, look in his eyes when he meets her gaze, chasing away any embarrassment she felt before at her bold ministrations.

Good. He wants her just as much as she wants him, then.

She's the first to break the silence – partly because she's never been one to delay the inevitable, but mostly because she can't stand the awkwardness of it.

"So that was… " she trails off, peeking up at him to see that both arms are by his side and he's avoiding her gaze.

"Yeah" he finishes, the word coming out as an awkward laugh as he grips the back of his neck.

"Killian?"

His eyes lock on hers for the millionth time that night, wide and waiting for her to continue.

"That was a good 'yeah', right?" she says nervously, her stomach clenching uncomfortably as she analyses his expression.

There is a long pause before his face relaxes and he takes a small step forward. Then a second. Then a third. And then he's standing in front of her and taking her face in his hands, her heart rate picks up, and he says "Yes, Emma. Definitely good."

She grins and is about to say something when a familiar voice rings out once again, calling, _always calling, _for the Princess, and this time she knows she can't avoid it. As ever, timing doesn't seem to be working in her favour and, as ever, the royal guard seems determined to bring her back to the castle at all costs.

"I have to go" she says, resentment colouring her tone.

His blue eyes searching, she repeats herself "I'm sorry, I really have to go."

"Well, if the lady insists, but Emma – " he breaks off, grabbing her arm when she makes to leave.

"Yes?" she says, turning back to him.

"I – " he fumbles, unsure of what to say.

"Don't worry, Leftenant," her voice comes confidently, releasing him from making some grand speech. He raises his raises eyebrows because she knew _exactly _what he was thinking, and she continues, "You'll see me again."

And with that, she closes the distance once more and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a moment as she savours the taste of him, the alcohol, and something else characteristic of their night together, before turning and ducking around the corner, out of his view.

She knows there'll be hell to pay tomorrow for this – her parents, _and _her hung-over self will definitely be having words with her – but, in this moment, she can't quite bring herself to care, and she has a one Killian Jones to thank for it.


	2. Part 2

It's late in the morning when she finally wakes up.

It would've been later, however, if not for a certain someone lying next to her and weighing the covers down, so that when she turns over with the intent of finding a cooler spot under the stifling sheets, she rolls straight into him instead and is jolted awake.

She groans, and doesn't even have to look up to know who it is.

Propped up against the headboard with a pillow supporting his lower back, and his legs crossed over as he takes an unnecessarily loud bite out of an apple, is none other than the one and only best friend she was supposed to share last night with.

Graham.

(Although she may have to reconsider that status if he makes this a morning – afternoon? – routine.)

He laughs between bites, "Quiet night, then?"

She groans again and mashes her head into the pillow, muttering something decidedly un-ladylike.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" he says mockingly, knowing full well what she said.

"I said – " she begins, but the words die in her throat when she finally gets a glimpse of him.

Of course, they've been friends since she was old enough to talk and spot which boys were cute (and which were not) but his luck in the genetic lottery still blows her away.

With a teasing look in his eye, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a way that it only does with her, and his glorious curly hair falling onto tanned skin and into warm blue eyes, the witty retort she had planned instead becomes –

"How do you even look like that right now?!"

Her voice is incredulous, and, from anyone else, it probably would've sounded like the words accidentally spilled out, revealing a burgeoning crush, but from her, knowing that she only sees him as a sibling and vice versa, it's not awkward in the slightest.

He laughs at her – he's always laughing at her – and says, "Well, I'm no expert in biology or anything, but it could have something to do with the fact that I _didn't_ have a date with alcohol last night."

"Shut up" she says, rolling her eyes and snatching the apple from him. She grabs a pillow and rearranges herself so that she's in the same position.

"So," she begins, swallowing a bite of apple, "dare I ask what time it is?"

His expression changes into one of mock seriousness, and he says darkly, "You don't want to know."

"Fine," she replies, laughing, "Well, at least tell me if the King and Queen" – her voice changes, adopting an air of superiority – "are still horribly mad at their impossible daughter."

She'd been right about hell to pay, she just hadn't anticipated having to deal with the devil so soon; last night, to be specific. Grumpy had left her at the door, and when it swung open and Snow and David were already there (what, did she could actually sneak upstairs and avoid them?) waiting for her with arms crossed and cheeks aflame with barely concealed anger, she knew that her nightmares were starting early. But where her mother was all seriousness, her father, she could tell, was fighting a smile, and keeping up appearances for his wife's sake. He always had been the more easy-going one, and she always had been a daddy's girl.

"Your parents are fine – your mother is getting changed and your father is making last minute preparations for the guests he's hosting today, so you're in the clear."

She sighs in relief, just as the headache that some part of her had stupidly thought she could avoid starts to set in. She grabs the water beside her bed, sculling it in one go.

He gets a tell-tale look about him then, and she knows he's going to ask about last night, so before he has the chance (and because she definitely is not ready to go there), she says "What happened with you last night, by the way?"

He gives her a placating look as if to say 'you can't avoid it forever', but indulges her anyway.

"I have no idea," he begins, "One minute we're running down Main Street, the next, I'm tripping and rolling over, expecting to see you there, waiting for me, but you'd already run off," he shrugs.

"Oh," she says guiltily, "Sorry, Graham."

"It's okay. I hope it was worth it, though."

That gets her attention. "What?"

"God, Emma," he says impatiently, "You realise how many people you pissed off last night, don't you?"

Her face drops and she turns away. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it at the time" she says quietly, sullenly.

"Yeah," he breathes, and there's laughter in there, but the mirthless kind and that more than anything makes her feel bad. "That was before I saw how disappointed your parents were, and how embarrassed they were to have to explain to all those people, who turned up to see _you, _that you were bedridden with some ailing cough."

Her heart sinks and she looks back at him. "I'm sorry."

His expression softens.

"I'm not the one you need to apologise to" he says, shaking his head. "Like I said, I just hope it was worth it."

She glances at him and then away again, hoping that for some reason he'll decide to let it be – not that she has any right to in light of her recent behaviour.

"So what happened?"

She gives a knowing sigh and keeps her face turned away from him as images of last night flood her mind, hazy, chaotic and confusing for all except one. An unwanted blush rises to her cheeks, warm at first, and then increasingly hotter.

"_Emma Swan_" he says, and disbelief colours his tone.

"Yes?" she replies, her voice higher than normal and slightly breathy.

"You're blushing."

"Am I?" she says, feeling her cheeks for no other reason than to feign surprise.

"What _happened, _last night?" he says, his voice truly curious now as he searches her eyes out.

She gives a small laugh, hoping it sounds casual.

"Besides discovering the limit of my alcohol tolerance?" she says, turning to him, "Nothing, Graham. I swear, you didn't miss anything."

"So what, we're keeping secrets, now?" he teases, but she knows he's probably offended deep down.

"No!" she says immediately, much too fast to be convincing. "Fine," she concedes, because his expression doesn't change and there's no way he's buying her bullshit, "something happened, but I'm not ready to talk about it just yet, okay?"

She holds his gaze, and after spending a long time on the roof of his head, his eyebrows lower as if he's settling for whatever it is that _that _was, and trusting that she'll tell him the whole story later.

"I'll let you get changed, then," he says, tugging on her hair affectionately, "your father's expecting you."

"For the guests, I assume?" she asks, imagining that the King would want her to be present for another 'makeshift' lesson in running the country and whatnot.

He nods, and swings his legs over the side of the bed, making his way towards the door.

"Seeya later, princess" he says just before disappearing into the hallway.

She immediately collapses back onto the bed, content to just lie there for a moment longer. As expected, her mind wanders – or runs straight back to, rather – a dark alley and a certain Leftenant with blue eyes as unyielding and ever-changing as the waters he sails on, a smile that can make even the most brutal of headaches seem worth it, and a laugh – a laugh that promises adventure, escape, _freedom_.

_Killian. _The name resonates in her mind, and if she closes her eyes, she can almost feel his hands caressing her cheeks, tangling in her hair, and gliding along the underside of her thigh all over again. Before she knows it, a hot flush is creeping over her skin once more, and there's no slowing her racing heart or untangling the knots in her stomach.

She has to see him again. She _will _see him again, parties and ball gowns be damned.

First, though – she needs to deal with her father and the guests.

Ignoring her headache (which proves to be rather difficult), she calls for the maid and together they decide that her pale blue dress – square neckline, long sleeves, fitted at the waist – is appropriate for the day.

When she finally heads down the staircase, a strange feeling settles in her stomach; queasy, unpleasant, and not unlike the time she made an early exit from her fourth level piano recital with a case of shaky hands and a sensitive gag reflex.

In hindsight, that probably should've been her first clue.

But because she isn't a naturally superstitious person by any stretch of the imagination, and because she has no reason to believe that the day won't turn out exactly like she thinks, she dismisses the feeling and chalks it up to the last of the alcohol making its way through her system.

As she draws closer to the ballroom, she can hear voices behind the doors – familiar sounding voices that would've been her second clue if she'd been paying more attention to them instead of not tripping up on her dress as she hurried to meet her father.

Stopping in front of the doors, she takes a second to catch her breath and wonder who it is she'll be entertaining today, before promptly pushing on the gilded handles, figuring she'll find out soon enough anyway.

She's momentarily blinded by the light seemingly coming through every window, every open door in the entire castle for how bright it is, but then her eyes adjust, she spots her father –

And stops dead in her tracks.

—

He isn't technically supposed to be meeting the Royal family with his brother, but the Captain of the Interceptor – James Norrington, he thinks his name was – pulled out at short notice, bedridden with some 'morning sickness' (which is by _far _the kindest euphemism he's ever heard for the hangover from hell – something he knows _a lot _about in his current state, but unlike him, doesn't have the luxury of refusing the request of his brother to accompany him to the castle) and so finds himself standing in the largest ballroom he's ever seen, conversing with the _King _himself and waiting for his daughter to turn up so that they can begin the tour.

He's heard she's his age and quite the rebellious princess (the only _half-_joking warning from her father was enough to cement all the rumours), a fact which his brother seemed to take great amusement in, letting out a leering _'well she probably won't have much to talk about with Killian, then', _when the information was given.

Apparently, his brother was referring to his usually straight-laced behaviour – 'usually' being the operative word, of course, after last nights antics.

After her_. _

After _Emma_.

Not for the first time today (and probably not the last) he finds himself wondering where she is right now, wondering when he'll see her again.

"My apologies, your Majesty, he's been like this all morning" his brother says, pulling him from his thoughts. "Off in his own world," he continues with a _what-can-you-do _look on his face and a shrug on his shoulders, although the very pointed look he shoots Killian after tells him he can expect words later.

The King laughs, a warm, hearty, laugh, and there's something familiar about it, but he can't figure out _what _exactly.

"It's fine, my daughter was the same when she came home last night. They're at that age" he says, leaning forward and sharing a knowing look with the Captain when he continues, "best not to tempt them out of it too soon."

"Oh, yes, that's right, same age. What's her name, again?" Liam asks.

"E – " the King begins, but at that point, the door at the end of the room opens, and instead he says "Ah, here she is" with a fond smile.

A strikingly beautiful young woman stands in the frame of the double doors, but that's not why his breath hitches in his throat and he thinks he may be on the verge of a heart attack.

Because it's _her, _it's the girl from last night, the girl he spent last night drinking, kissing, doing a whole manner of other things, _wanting _a whole manner of things with. Wrong things, wrong, wrong, _wrong _because the strikingly beautiful young woman – the girl who told him to call her Emma – is the crown princess of the realm.

And for the first time in a very, _very, _long time, Killian swears.

Out. Loud.

—

Mortified.

She is mortified beyond belief, and her first thought when she realises that she's actually going to have to go through with this – because she's here now, there's no escaping, there's no excuses this time, her rebel ways have finally caught up and are coming at her with a vengeance – is _I should've listened to my stomach._

Killian (can she even call him that now?) and his brother look as if they've seen a ghost.

Vaguely, she hears her father say something and registers his outstretched arm as he waits for her to come over_. _With great difficulty, she pulls herself together and does just that.

"_Fuck" _

The word is unmistakeable as it leaves the leftenant's lips and echoes in the hall, but is almost immediately covered up by _very _loud, _very _obvious coughing as if the cuss itself was all he needed in order to come to his senses.

She doesn't think her father heard if his confused expression is anything to go by, but the Captain certainly did, his face now an ugly red shade of secondhand embarrassment.

"Are you alright, Leftenant?" her father says with a concerned look on his face.

"Y-yes, I'm fine, your Majesty" he manages to croak out, in between coughs.

"Father?" Emma says quietly, coming to stand next to him. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him finally straighten up at the sound of her voice and hears the spluttering abruptly cease.

"Ah, yes" the King replies, remembering himself, "Captain and Leftenant Jones, allow me to introduce my daughter, Princess Emma."

She makes towards the Captain first just as his expression turns awkward and he begins to shift on his feet, glancing over at her father almost guiltily.

"Yes, about that, I – "

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain" she cuts him off, "I've heard a lot about the successes of the Jewel of the Realm and I can confidently say on behalf of my family that we are very fortunate to have such a fine leader in yourself representing the kingdom," she finishes smoothly, offering her hand, and simultaneously saving him – saving the three of them – from a potentially _very _awkward conversation. Telling the King that he was with her daughter last night, passing drinks to her, _getting drunk _with her, would be a very awkward conversation, indeed.

Holding herself together and doing just as her mother taught her when dealing with 'sticky situations' such as this, she tries to wordlessly convey her intentions, hoping that the Captain has survival instincts enough to go along with it.

He hesitates for a moment – half surprised, half wary – and Emma's hand trembles. But then he takes it in his own and relaxes, the nervousness leaving his posture and a smile gracing his features.

She exhales.

"I am honoured" he says, giving a curt bow and a customary kiss to her hand, "Your Highness is too kind."

She smiles and he releases her hand. Her heart rate picks up in anticipation of what she has to do next, and she gulps down her nerves, subtly wiping her hands on her dress as if to steady them and clear any sweat off.

"Leftenant," she finally turns to him and wonders if her breathy, suddenly high pitched, voice is as obvious to everyone else as it is to her. "I, uh, congratulate you on your endeavours, also. You should-you should be very proud," she says meekly.

His face is blank, and he spares her only a second's glance as he mutters his thanks, takes her hand in his own, barely holding it, barely kissing it, and releasing it instantly, looking back up and over her shoulder.

It's like a slap to the face.

And, yet, even with the lightest of touches she still feels her hand burning where he kissed it.

She stares, willing him to look at her but he doesn't falter and his eyes remain trained on something behind her. Whatever emotions are swirling around inside of him are masked, his face betraying nothing, while she feels everything and is holding back her desire to just _shake _him, to just understand what's going on in his mind so that she can try to understand what's going on in hers.

"Good, good" David says approvingly, laying a gentle hand on the small of her back just as _he _turns his attention to her father, still avoiding her gaze. "Shall we take a tour and discuss our intentions for the Jewel, then?"

"Yes, an excellent plan, your Majesty" Liam returns warmly, oblivious to the exchange – one sided, though it may be – between his brother and the princess.

Her eyes are still locked on him when they fall into step behind her father and Liam.

Conversation immediately ensues between the two men in front of them – light-hearted and easy initially, but quickly dissolving into serious discussion – and eventually she manages to tear her gaze away from the man beside her.

But much as she tries to focus on what her father's saying, all she can think about is the alley, is the moment their bodies collided, is her name whispered from his lips between kisses and the shivers that raced down her spine in the exhale of air against her skin that followed, setting her on fire with need and making her feel more alive than she'd ever thought possible.

She keeps glancing at him, but he never once looks at her. The most she gets is his jaw clenching, and after a while, she stops looking. Her pace slows as well – whether consciously or subconsciously, she can't tell – and before she knows it, they've fallen behind, a good twenty metres between them and their elders now, and he's stayed with her.

She knows she shouldn't, knows it's already awkward and uncomfortable enough, but she can't help but blurt out – "are you ever going to look at me?"

He keeps his eyes ahead and maintains his composure. But because she is the crown princess, and therefore holds rank over him, he allows an imperceptible glance her way as he replies, quietly, dispassionately, "Yes, your Highness."

She sighs. "Are you really going to act like this?"

"Like what, your Highness?"

"Like – " she falls short, struggling for words and waving her hand up and down his form by explanation, "I don't know, difficult! You're acting as if nothing happened!" She sighs in frustration again and makes a mental note to lower her voice if she doesn't want her father to hear.

"I didn't know I had cause to act differently, Highness."

" – and could you stop calling me 'your Highness'? I told you, call me Emma."

"Forgive me, your Highness" he says, ignoring her request, and for a second she thinks she sees the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smirk, but it's gone before she can get a second look.

She hates him right now. Hates him for being so _goddamn _composed, so seemingly unaffected by her, when she is so caught up in his mere presence that even now as she wants to strangle him, she's still finding it difficult to keep her thoughts straight and coherent, and aches to touch him, to taste him all over again.

It's infuriating.

Which is probably why, in the next moment, she grabs him by the arm and pulls him towards the closest room, sparing one second to check her father isn't watching (he isn't) and sparing no seconds to second guess herself.

"Wha – " the breath rushes out of him as he's yanked along and shoved into the room first.

She closes the door behind her and realises, rather belatedly, that of all the rooms to have chosen, this probably wasn't the best one.

It's poorly lit and small – larger than a closet, but only just – and does nothing to calm her racing heart with the knowledge that it's a similar setting to last night. And apparently he's thinking the same thing because his eyes widen when he takes in his surroundings and _her _standing impossibly close to him and right in front of the door, preventing any ideas he might have of a quick escape.

"There. You can stop pretending now, my father and your brother can't hear or see us" she says defiantly.

At the sound of her voice, his expression becomes neutral again and the mask returns. "And what did you hope to achieve by crowding us in this room?"

Her blood boils again at how determined he is to pretend like last night didn't happen, how determined he is not to let her in.

"Stop that" she snaps at him.

"Stop what, your Highness?"

"Stop shutting me out!" she whispers furiously, almost spitting the words. "Stop deflecting, stop acting like nothing happened, just _stop!"_

"What would you have me do, then, Princess?" he bites back.

His tone is deceptively light, but for the first time, she thinks she hears a slight sneer in his voice, an undercurrent of anger and annoyance.

_Good, _she thinks. _Now we're getting somewhere._

"I would have you look at me, for starters."

His gaze turns to her and she realises she was right – he's definitely angry. And she knows he has every right to be (and then some) because she lied – or withheld the truth, rather – about her identity, and then put him in the most awkward of awkward positions, where he had no choice but to be here for this _stupid _meeting about the future of the Jewel, and, really, she shouldn't expect any other kind of treatment when it was her decision to cover up last night and make it look as though this was their first introduction.

But _still. _

She hates that it has to be like this; that they even have to have this conversation in the first place.

"And then what, milady?" he asks, now that she has his attention.

"How about some answers?"

He stays silent, and the seconds pass on, proper decorum holding him back from having any intimate conversations with the Princess. They walk a fine line being in this closet already, and they're both painfully aware of the consequences should they be caught in this position.

"Killian, _please" _she implores, her voice soft and almost defeated.

"It's Leftenant Jones" he says coldly, immediately, and she recoils, tears threatening to spill over. His eyes flicker as soon as the words are out, though, and she thinks she sees something like regret in them. But as stupid as she feels for thinking that perhaps saying his name might finally strip his walls down and get him to speak, and hurt though she is by how quickly he spoke, it doesn't compare to the anger that simmers up all of a sudden, spilling over, and without any effort on her part to contain it.

"Fine," she spits out, turning around and keeping her back to him as she continues, "I'm sorry that last night was apparently so awful for you, and I'm sorry that you seem to regret it so much. Forgive me, Leftenant Jones," she pauses, "you don't have to worry, because I won't bring it up again."

She sounds harsh, but she doesn't care, she doesn't care, _she doesn't care. _

She reaches for the doorknob and –

"I don't regret it"

The words are so quietly spoken she almost thinks she imagined them. But, no, they're definitely there, hanging in the space between them, tentative and real and raw.

"What?" she whispers, turning around slowly.

"I don't regret it," he says again, and even in the dim light, she can see the sincerity in his expression and the longing in his eyes as he continues, "I don't think it's possible to regret being with you, Emma"

She forgets how to breathe for a second at the sound of her name tumbling from his lips. And she's afraid to hope, because even though he's finally speaking to her, there's still something holding him back.

"Then wh – "

"Because!" he says vehemently, taking a step closer to stand inches away from her. "Don't you see?" his voice is frustrated, and his hand reaches out to touch her but it stops mid stretch, the impulse reined in, "even if I wanted to pursue you, I couldn't because _you _are first and foremost the Crown Princess, and I am, above all, a naval officer, bound by the law and answerable to your father, the _King" _he finishes, emphasising each word.

"I know" she says, and her voice cracks a little.

"Then you also know that this can't go any further," his voice is softer now, but no less insistent, "not just because of those reasons I mentioned, but also because I might have to leave at moment's notice and I don't want saying goodbye to you to be harder than it already is."

He finishes his speech, and a reckless feeling overcomes her when she realises he's waiting for her reaction, waiting for her to understand. She's angry, _oh _so angry at the unfairness of it all, angry that everything he's saying is true and that they're the exact words she didn't want to hear. So in that moment, she abandons all logical reasoning and closes the gap separating their bodies (he makes a half-hearted, wasted attempt at stepping back, but with every inch that she draws nearer, his resolve falters) leaning up and whispering against his lips –

"Then don't say goodbye"

That electricity, that spark, that _chill _so characteristic of their interactions returns once more, and she can tell it's taking all of his willpower not to reach out to her. And again, just like last time, it's as though all the air has been sucked from the room and replaced by him, by the intoxicating combination of salt and sea and adventure.

Body on auto-pilot now, her head tilts as if to tempt him in by providing a better angle, and notices with a (perhaps) cruel sense of satisfaction that his breathing is ragged when he says her name again, says "we shouldn't", even though something about the way the words are spoken sounds very, _very _much like he thinks they should.

"I know" she breathes against his mouth, and he's done for.

Instantly, his lips are on hers, warm and insistent, just like she remembers, only this time it's slower – lacking the same frenzied desire that brought them together last night – but somehow more passionate, more intense, as if they have each other memorised and can just take their time.

She moans with the contact and his hands come to cup her cheeks, eventually making their way through her hair and staying there, whilst one of hers firmly plants itself on his back and the other snakes around his neck. His mouth slants over hers once, twice, a third time, opening her up to him, tangling their tongues, forcing their feet to shift beneath them in sync and constantly changing their position.

"_Killian" _she sighs into him between kisses, and his body suddenly goes still against hers and his head drops, looking down. The heat is still there, though, and for a moment, she pretends that he's just taking a breather or something.

"What's wrong?" she says eventually, already knowing.

Too much, too soon, too intense to deal with, but now too late not to. If she'd left it – if _they'd _left it – to just last night, it could probably have been eventually forgotten, or at the very least passed of as a one-time thing.

But now is a different story entirely.

He lets go and pulls back (again, _fucking _again), taking a step away from her and not meeting her eyes as he stammers, chokes out "I shouldn't have – I-I'm sorry. I – please forgive me, I can't – "

He doesn't let himself finish or her have the chance to begin, before he's pulling the door open and rushing out, leaving her standing there in a room/closet alone, confused, reeling, and trying to catch her breath – _always _trying to catch her fucking breath.

It doesn't take long for her confusion to become anger; boiling anger, so angry her hands shake and she itches to slap something. She lets out a long string of curses, and almost stamps her feet like a five year old because How. _Dare_. He.

How dare he leave her like this, how _dare _he tell her he doesn't regret anything, doesn't want to say goodbye to her and then do everything to prove otherwise.

Her vision is clouded by red, but she forces herself to calm down. There's no point wasting anymore time raging about this and feeling sorry for herself.

She does end up calming down with a few (okay, several) steadying breaths, and comes to the conclusion that next time she sees him, she won't be mad. She won't fling accusations his way and demand answers like she did when she shoved him in this stupid closet/room. She'll be perfectly civil, and will spare no glances his way that could be better spent elsewhere, because that's the same tactic he used against her today and it worked _oh _so well (she notes, derisively.)

And if there's one thing she's learned when it comes to these sorts of things, it's that you don't get mad – you get even.


	3. Part 3

His brother is a man of few words.

Easy-going, confident, and as all those close to him can attest to, a man who knew _exactly_ what he wanted to be as soon as he was old enough to stand on his own two feet and watch the annual Royal fleet parade.

It should come as no surprise, then, that to save time on unnecessary speeches and trivial words that can be better proved through actions, most of everything that happens in his brother's life falls into one of two categories; good form, or – if something is particularly unfortunate – bad form.

The latter category was established after Liam discovered him for the first time, face down in the mud beside the bridge on the outskirts of town, drunk off his face and badly beaten from a brawl at one of the pubs nearby – where someone had been so kind as to direct his brother to where he'd stumbled off to (or so he's told, he obviously doesn't remember much of that night.)

And when the two whispered words had escaped his brother's lips like a curse at the sight of him, it wasn't in regards to his appearance – it was in reference to his father's negligence.

Nevertheless, as Killian Jones opens the door of the closet and rushes out on a very confused and hurt looking princess, he thinks his brother may need to come up with a new category, because what he's done – correction, what he's _doing_ – makes 'bad' looks positively saintly in comparison.

And as soon as he rounds the corner, catches his breath, and can actually _think, _he's turning around and rushing right back because of all the people he never wanted to hurt, never wanted to disappoint, she tops the list.

It doesn't matter that he only met her last night. It doesn't matter, because in that time, her smile, her _ridiculous _laugh, her impossible eyes when they're narrowed in challenge and the next instant wide open in surprise and honesty, even her lips when they're spouting off taunts and when they're engaged in… other more enjoyable activities, have worked their way under his skin and there's no going back.

There's no ignoring her, this bloody brilliant, amazing, infuriating woman.

His feet hit the ground running, his heart thrumming a desperate rhythm, and he has no idea what he's going to say when he sees her – if she's still there, that is.

_Please still be there, _he hopes – _gods _does he hope.

He skids in front of the room. The door is open, and the room is still dark, so when empty space stares back at him, he thinks maybe his eyes are wrong, maybe she's still in there but has retreated back where he can't see.

But the cold air within tells him a different story, one that he wishes he hadn't been responsible for –

Gone, gone, _gone._

-/-/-/-

It's a couple of days after the incident in the closet when thoughts of him finally manage to work their way back into the forefront of her mind.

She'd been doing a pretty damn good job at stuffing his stupid – _attractive – _face into a box at the back of her mind and distracting herself from opening it, until the maid brought up a message to her room and the box practically exploded, leaving her no hope of ignoring him then.

The letter from her mother detailing the ball being held in honour of the naval officers tonight now sits on her bedside table.

It's funny, because once upon a time, before that night and before _him_, she'd actually been excited for it.

(It's not really funny, but she doesn't know how to deal with it.)

(She misses him, and she doesn't know how to deal with it.)

Sighing, and ridding herself of those depressing thoughts, she looks at her reflection in the mirror as she holds the dress she picked out at short notice in front of herself.

"Beautiful" a voice says admiringly from the corner of the room. Her mother stands in the doorway, hands folded over and resting on her skirt.

"It is" Emma agrees without looking at her. And even though her mother's quite obviously _not_ referring to the dress, it's true all the same – dark red satin, a strapless, ruched, bodice with a kind of overlapping twill across one shoulder, coming to an end in an edgy cut, and a generous skirt that will allow her to wear flats (as per her request), she _is _looking forward to wearing it.

Snow walks over with a wry smile, "I wasn't talking about the dress."

"I know" she replies, turning just as her mother's hand comes to rest on her back.

"You are aware that everybody will be wearing navy and white, though" she reminds her daughter, her voice rising at the end in question.

Emma glances at her out of the corner of her eye, one eyebrow raised and her mouth quirked up, as she repeats "I know."

Her mother is taken aback for a moment before she says, chuckling, "Oh, Irecognise that look – what are you up to?"

Emma grins in reply, not even trying to hide it. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Well, just so long as you don't plan on running out on this one, not like you did a couple of days ago with the Jones brothers. Your father still hasn't forgiven you, you know."

To say she sobers immediately is an understatement.

"Believe me," she turns around and hangs the dress up again, "I have zero intention of missing this. And as for Dad," she begins, "he knows why I had to leave. I fell sick," she shrugs. "I mean, what did he want me to do – throw up all over them? Because that would've left a great_, stinking_, impression," her voice drips with sarcasm.

"Clever," her mother replies, rolling her eyes at the pun, "But he's not buying it. He says the younger one – the Leftenant, I can't remember his name now – "

"Killian," Emma says immediately and then quickly adds on the end "I think." Her cheeks flush a deep shade of red, almost as dark as her dress, and she avoids the gaze of the woman beside her.

After a moment – too long a moment – her mother continues, "Yes, well apparently when he returned, he was white as a ghost, stammering apologies, requesting leave and, like you, saying something about feeling sick," she pauses, raising her eyebrows before very pointedly looking at her, "it was all very sudden_."_

"Really?" she replies offhandedly, in a poor attempt to compose herself. Yes, her mother is definitely going to be reporting back to her father that he was right; that something _did _happen between Leftenant Killian Jones and their daughter.

"Mm-hm. Anyway, I suppose he'll be at the ball tonight."

"Yeah, I guess," she says, trying for a smile as she glances at her mother, who is _still _looking at her intently.

Apparently she hasn't been watching her for long enough, though, because it's a while before her mother speaks again and looks away. "Okay, I know when I'm not welcome anymore," she says finally, throwing her hands up in surrender and making to leave.

"No, Mum, it's not that – _god, _sorry, I'm just," she breaks off, struggling for words, "my mind is just elsewhere right now."

"Yes," she agrees, laughing, "that much is obvious."

She makes an apologetic face. Her mother's soft laugh carries through at that and she says "again – so long as you're not like this tonight, I have no problem with you being preoccupied now."

A half-hearted smile on her half and an affectionate pat on the cheek and "see you tonight" on her mother's later, and she's alone once more.

She's grateful for the space because, oh _god, _Snow was starting to get that knowing look and proving that, once again, just because she's not always with her, doesn't mean she can't be perceptive. Or maybe she's overreacting, and the Queen is really just being observant – if what her father says is true, Killian feeling ill and her bailing just as suddenly under the same excuse _is_ _kind of _(definitely) a giveaway.

Whatever, tonight she most certainly _isn't _going to bail for any sort of reason, no siree.

And as she continues to entertain those thoughts and wilfully ignore anything slightly other to them, she changes into her riding gear and heads out to meet Graham, hoping that he'll have something else to say besides how much he's looking forward to the ball.

-/-/-/-

The festivities are in full swing when she stands at the top of the staircase and can see, through the gap in the partially open double doors (partially, as if they were beckoning and waiting for her grand entrance), navy and white moving back and forth.

Her heart leaps in her throat, and she almost decides against the dress right then and there.

She won't be the only seventeen year old girl in the room amidst, no doubt, interested sailors-a-plenty, and she sure as hell isn't a stranger to attention (in fact, she usually loves it, although that was before she didn't have anyone to impress but herself), but she _will_ be the only one wearing a colour other than what the dress code dictated, and that_ does_ make her nervous.

What if he thinks she's being superficial or something? What if he _isn't _impressed, not in the slightest, and thinks he made the right decision avoiding her and all of her royal baggage?

What if?

_What if you stop worrying and just enjoy yourself, _a very frustrated voice in the corner of her mind grumbles (probably the same voice which told her to pick the dress.)

She hesitates on the two opposing arguments for a moment longer, and then, gathering her skirt (the latter voice did make the more convincing case, after all), she traipses down the stairs and makes sure not to trip up and make her 'grand' entrance not so grand, indeed. She takes one last steadying breath as she stands in front of the doors (deja-vu, only the last time, she was on the other side of the ballroom and was in a decidedly different mindset – _oh _how naïve) and pushes.

And yeah, the voices _actually _die down and the music all but cuts off at the sight of her. She spots her parents, and of everyone there, they're probably the only ones without their mouths on the floor and their eyebrows on the ceiling.

She can't deny, it's an empowering feeling.

(She tries not to be too overwhelmed by it, though the 'not getting an inflated ego' part is a tad lost on her, _pity_.)

"Nice of you to show up," a voice shouts from the crowd eventually – thanks, Graham. The silence breaks, the hall erupts into laughter and she finds herself grinning also.

"Only for you," she yells back with a wink, spotting him in the crowd. The laughter continues.

As everyone goes about what they were doing before she arrived and the conversation picks up again, she makes her way over to where her best friend is, leaning against the champagne table. It doesn't escape her that, on the way, she gets a few admiring, lingering, stares, and in equal measure, glances back and forth as people try not to be too obvious.

(She doesn't know where _he _is just yet, but she knows her eyes will find him soon enough, as they always seem to do when he's in the room.)

"Of course you did," he says, his eyes flitting up and down her dress by way of starting the conversation, a grin in place.

"Would you think it was me if I hadn't?" she retorts, and takes a glass. She needs to relax.

He laughs, nodding his head and standing upright as he says "Alright, you have me there."

He pulls her in for a hug then, and as he does so, he turns his head and whispers into the shell of her ear, "You look beautiful, Emma," and then adds, "but you don't need me to tell you that."

He kisses her hair and pulls back, taking in her flushed cheeks and her goofy, _happy,_ grin. If Graham's complimenting her, she hopes it's a sign that good things will come from tonight. She almost doesn't need the glass anymore – _almost_.

"You don't look too bad yourself," she replies.

"Why thankyou, that's high praise coming from the princess," he says and then leans in, "I'll be sure not to let it go to my head."

"Yes, a wise decision – any bigger, and it might explode," she quips, and he laughs loudly.

"Alright, you win," he concedes, and she gives him a look like _obviously_. "Now get out of here, your parents are waiting to see you. Oh, and Swan," he calls out her childhood nickname just as she begins to walk away. She turns around, and he continues, "Save me a dance?"

"Of course," she replies, curtsying.

The crowd parts for her as she turns around and then _he's_ there.

Leaning against one of the columns as Graham had with the drink table, but wearing an entirely different expression, his eyes are already on her by the time she matches his gaze. He takes it as his cue to walk over, but instead of meeting him half-way, she gives a tight-lipped smile and changes direction towards her parents. She doesn't look back to see his face.

-/-/-/-

_Perfect. _

She is perfect, and it has nothing to do with the dress – which is nice, of course, but pales in comparison to the long, blonde hair falling in soft waves over her slender shoulders, held off her face by a delicate gold headband, and her green eyes alight with laughter and mischief, and finally, the red blush of her cheeks which stands in brilliant complementation to everything else.

The Crown Princess dances the whole night, sailor after sailor, while he spends the whole night watching her (just like everybody else), waiting for his turn, waiting patiently until he can wait no longer at the sight of her laughing and being twirled around by his fellow officers.

She's all but been with everyone in the room by the time he gets to her.

"Leftenant" the boy she's got her arms wrapped around notices him before she does, and her back goes rigid when she realises who it must be.

"Anderson," he nods his head in acknowledgement, and doesn't have to do much more than that before the officer is excusing himself.

She turns around and raises her eyebrows at him defiantly. "That was rude" she says with her arms folded.

He agrees, but he can't help but smile at her because it's the first time she's looked at him – _really _looked at him. Wordlessly, he untangles her crossed arms and gently draws her in, keeping eye contact with her until she looks away. And it's a good thing she keeps an inch or two between them because if she hadn't, she would feel just how fast his heart is hammering away in his chest.

They step back and forth in silence for a while, until he hears her sigh and she says, "What are you doing, Killian?"

"What I've been wanting to do all night," he replies smoothly, trying to ignore the way his thoughts went into overdrive when she said his name.

He swings her around all of a sudden and her breath catches in her throat. When they pick up their rhythm again, she huffs and looks up at him with a frustrated expression on her face like _you could've given me a bit of warning._

"Dance with me?" she says eventually, "After what hap – "

"I wasn't talking about the dancing," he cuts her off and then looks down at her, "I was talking about an apology."

She holds his gaze and is about to say something when they're interrupted –

"Excuse me, Leftenant Jones," her father appears by their side, and they pull away as the King turns to his daughter and says, "It's time for the toast."

"Right," she says, letting go of her dance partner, "Uh, thankyou, Leftenant."

She looks at him for a moment longer before following her father, and he frantically searches for something in her eyes, some indication that she'll listen, that later, when he says the damn apology because she deserves it, she'll listen. And if after that, she wants nothing to do with him, it's what he deserves.

But when the speech is over and he seeks her out, she's already surrounded by people, falling over themselves to be in her presence (falling over themselves to soak up the sun), and even from where he stands on the opposite side of the room, he can see that she has everyone wrapped around her little finger, and that it'll be a while longer before he has his chance.

But he continues to wait, and with every passing second, the ache to touch her, to _hold _her, to show her with his lips and his hands what a fool he was to run out on her continues to grow in a desperate test of his strength.

Inevitably, the night winds down, the glass doors of the ballroom open to let fresh air in, the band adopts a soft, slow tune, and Emma leads a group of naval officers outside, each of them with a glass in hand, and he follows behind shortly after.

They sit in a secluded garden illuminated by small lights, and when he comes to stand in front of the group, the laughter abruptly dies off and her attention turns to him.

"May I have a moment, your Highness?"

All of them stare at him, including her, and she's silent for a few moments before she says, "I'm afraid I did promise the Leftenant some of my time," by way of prompting them to leave. They all get to their feet, reassuring her that _it's fine _as she makes her sincere apologies.

Once they've wandered off to the dying party and are out of earshot, she turns to him with an easy smile and leans back on the stone chair.

"So what was it you wanted to say to me, Leftenant?" she breathes into the cool air, creating condensation clouds.

"I just wanted to finish our earlier discussion," he says.

"Oh, yes, that's right," she leans forward, "I was supposed to find you after the toast," she breaks off and then gives an apologetic smile, "sorry, I got pulled away to dance afterwards, and I forgot."

"Yes, I noticed," he replies, glancing away and trying not to look too bitter.

She chuckles then and says "Is that jealousy?" as she gets up and walks over to him, a smirk pulling the corners of her mouth up.

Though her words are half-hearted, unassuming even, there's something off about them, something that gives him pause. And with that thought, a lamp shade is lit somewhere, and he has to blink a few times to register the knowing look in her eyes.

Jealous? _Of course _he was jealous, half of the people in the room were when she wasn't dancing with them. Of course he was jealous when he wasn't the one to make her smile and laugh and when the first person she went to was some nameless boy and not him.

Yes, he was jealous when she so openly and easily welcomed the gaze of everyone else, but when her eyes fell on him for the first time, and he couldn't look away – hadn't been able to since she first walked in – it was like she didn't want his attention.

Jealous, and he had no right to be, and he hated himself for it, even filed it under the growing list of his faults in the bad form category.

But the way she said it just now – it was like she _wanted _him to be.

The knowledge hits him like a punch in the face; the expectant look in her eye, and the way she'd tried to casually pass the question off, it's all too obvious, far, _far _too obvious, and he curses himself for not noticing it sooner.

Anger, but more than that, _embarrassment _at being some object of her enjoyment, flares up within him and before he knows it, he's taking a disappointed, hurt, step back and yelling –

"_Gods, _Emma, is this just a game to you?!"

She flinches at the sudden change in his demeanor and the accusation in his words, and her expression changes; becomes confused.

He hesitates for a second at her immediate bewilderment, wondering if perhaps he's jumped to conclusions, wondering if he's read her all wrong. As if on cue for a dramatic confrontation, there's a spat of rain on his face, growing steadily until it's a light downpour.

"Were you trying to make me jealous?" he asks, his voice hard and demanding, but still holding out a sliver of hope that she wasn't.

Her eyes widen in shock, suddenly understanding, and there's a flicker of something like regret in them. It's is enough to tell that he doesn't want – doesn't need – to hear the answer.

She looks down and he turns away, shaking his head and running his hands through his hair.

"What was it supposed to be, Emma? Your version of a lesson?" he says after a few moments, and every word is louder, angrier, than the last.

"No, Killian, I-I –" she breaks off and looks at him beseechingly, unable to find the words. And he can't find it in himself to help her, so he falls silent again because even like this, _even _when he's so mad he wants to shake her, the sadness in her eyes makes him want to yank her into his arms and never let her go.

"You know, I went back for you," he says eventually, his voice quieter as he lets out a laugh, half to himself.

Her face drops and her whole body tenses. "What?" she says in a low voice, her eyes wide open and glued to his. The rain picks up, getting increasingly louder.

"I went back for you after I ran off that day we kissed again," he repeats more seriously, "because I realised my mistake as soon as I had a second to think."

She doesn't say anything and he continues, "Do you know how much I hated myself for doing that to you?" he searches her eyes out, but she won't meet his gaze, and so he goes on, "I felt sick – I had to disappoint both your father _and _my brother by leaving because I couldn't be there even _knowing _that you were hurting because of me."

"And then – " he falls off short, another harsh laugh escaping his lips, "and then tonight, I came to apologise, never expecting your forgiveness, or believing that I deserved it. And yet, here you were, planning ways to get back at me," he says, shaking his head.

The rain pours down heavily now, and so when she looks up at him and her face is wet, he can't tell whether it's because of that or because she's crying. And when she says "You would've done the same" in reply after a few moments, he almost doesn't hear because the heavy thrum of water droplets falling on the ground drowns out the sound of her voice – _almost_, though.

"Actually, no," he replies, and she nods, looking down again.

_Gods, what is this? _He thinks. In less than a week – _hell_, in less than five days – everything has changed, _he's _changed, everything has become so bloody complicated, and there's a small part of him which wishes he'd never gone with his brother to meet the King; that he'd never discovered that girl he'd spent one of the most unforgettable nights of his existence with was the princess.

And yet, there's an overwhelmingly larger part of him that shouts at those thoughts, that shuns them into non-existence, because – how could he _possibly _regret any time he's spent with Emma? He's told her as much, as well; he told her before he'd kissed her for a second time immediately after saying they couldn't.

But, ultimately, he thinks, right now, he has no idea where they go from this – where they _can _go from this.

(He thinks thinking is a waste of time; that they've ended up in this mess because of it.)

She sniffs then, and it draws him out of his thoughts, and draws them both out of the tense silence.

"It's a nice dress," he says unthinkingly for the first time, and she slowly raises her eyes. She has lovely eyes - he's thought so from the first moment he saw her when she walked into the bar that night, remembers feeling lucky when those green orbs looked at him. "You should go inside before the rain ruins it," his voice sounds defeated, and with that, he thinks, _enough._

He turns around and walks off in the rain.

-/-/-/-

He walks off in the rain, and she stands there, feeling her heart - feeling it –

She doesn't know what's happening to her heart, but it's sure as hell not ripping in two. Ripping in two makes it sound comfortable compared to how hers is feeling.

Crumbling, perhaps. Like someone's wedged a diamond in there and taken a hammer to it, so that when it shatters, the pieces are so small they're not pieces, they're fine dust particles, collapsing in a heap.

She stands there for a long time, letting the rain run down her neck and over her shoulders, letting it drench her satin dress beyond recovery (because it's all irrelevant now) and only when she hears her parents calling from within does she start to move.

And only when she sees Graham rushing to her out of the corner of her eye does she realise she must've wandered to the stables where he tends to the horses before he heads back to his quarters for the night.

Dimly, she's aware of herself saying "I screwed it up" over and over again, and him asking what she's talking about, at which point she collapses into him and he carries her back to the castle, back to her room.

Later, when she's under the covers and her parents have come and gone, she tells Graham everything. She starts from the beginning, when she wound up at a pub named 'the Rabbit Hole' and met a sailor named Killian Jones, and finishes at the end, right up to where she is now. Graham stays quiet the entire time, listening to her but saying nothing, knowing that words are not what she needs right now.

The last image she sees before sleep takes her under is him with his top button undone on that first night, his face so hopeful and handsome when she told him she'd see him again.

And a couple of miles away from her, at the same time, _he_ reaches the Jewel and the first place he goes is to where he knows one of the officers hides a secret stash of rum. Taking one bottle, then another and another, he drinks himself into oblivion, and the last thought he has before passing out is of her, when the door opened and she walked in wearing her riding gear, and when her eyes fell on him and she grinned like they'd known each other forever.


End file.
